Count Each Day so Each Day Counts (Shabbat Acharei Mot)

We are all counting - counting years of pandemic, months of the Russian invasion of Ukraine; counting down to graduations and family gatherings. This is an ancient practice: our ancestors also counted — down to their departure from Egypt, and on the second night of Passover, up during a period of time called the Omer.

Torah instructs us about this practice of counting:

From the day after the Sabbath, the day that you bring the sheaf (omer) of wave-offering, you shall keep count until seven full weeks have elapsed: you shall count fifty days until the day after the seventh week, then you shall bring an offering of new grain to Adonai (Lev. 23:15-16).

Our ancestors interpret this verse to mean the first sheaf of the barley grain was brought to the Temple on the second day of Passover. We are told to count seven weeks (forty-nine days), at the end of which – in Temple times – one brought loaves of bread made from the new grain as part of their celebration of the holiday of Shavuot.

After the Temple was destroyed, this was no longer possible. All that was left to us by way of ritual was to count the days and weeks between Passover and Shavuot. In fact, this time period is often simply called sefirah, “the counting.”

Counting these 49 days may sound simple, but in my experience, it’s one of the most difficult rituals to actually complete: it’s so easy grow impatient, or to forget. As I count, I notice how much I want to speed through challenging moments or hold onto pleasant ones.

The 49 days of the Omer, unlike other periods in our lives, cannot be rushed or drawn out: we count 49 days. Then we stop. That is the practice.

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In addition to counting the Omer each night before my partner and I go to bed, I’ve recently begun teaching myself how to knit. I count my knit stitches and my purl stitches. I undo them if I’ve knit too many.

There’s no way to fast forward through a row.

When I knit, the simple act of counting helps me surrender to the pace of reality, really sink into the experience of needle and yarn and quiet.

Only when we’re patient, not trying to control how much time something takes, can we actually be present to our lives as they are. Let events unfold in the time they actually take.

Perhaps this is what the Psalmist means when he entreats God,

limnot yameinu ken hoda, v’navo levav chochma / “teach us to count our days that we may receive a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12).

Instead of rushing through life, or clinging to a particular moment, Jewish tradition challenges us – during the Omer and beyond – to count each day in its own time.

As we practice patiently counting the Omer, may we accept the limits and gifts of each day, so we too might eventually receive a heart of wisdom.